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THE FAITHFUL FRIEND.

The green-house is my summer seat;
My shrubs displaced from that retreat

Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there.

They fang, as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they lift;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,

And therefore never missed.

But nature works in every breast;
Instinct is never quite suppressed;

And Dick felt some desires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Inftructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.

The open windows seemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere

To leave his friend behind.

For, settling on his grated roof,
He chirped and kiffed him, giving proof

That he desired no more;
Nor would forsake his cage at laft,
Till gently seized, I shut him fast,

A prisoner as before.

Oh

ye, who never knew the joys Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout! Blush, when I tell you how a bird, A prison with a friend preferred

To liberty without,

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

THERE is a field, through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and filky grass,
Adjoining clofe to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to folace many a neighbouring 'squire,
That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contufion hazarding of neck or spine,
Whichi rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Qaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crefts of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph befide a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the fides, but shivered long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scooped, I judge in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed ;
Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray,
With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,
Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats
With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes,
For which, alas! my destiny severe,
Though ears The gave me two, gave me no ear.

The sun, accomplishing his early march,
His lamp now planted on heaven's topmoft arch,
When, exercise and air my only aim,
And heedless whither, to that field I came,
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound
Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,
Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang
All Kilwick * and all Dingle-derry * rang.

Sheep grazed the field ; some with soft bosom pressed
The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the reft;
Nor noise was heard but of the hafty brook,
Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.
All seemed so peaceful, that from them conveyed
To me, their peace by kind contagion spread.

* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.

But when the huntsman, with diftended cheek,
'Gan make his inftrument of music fpeak,
And from within the wood that crash was heard,
Though not a hound from whom it burft appeared,
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed,
All huddling into phalanx, ftood and gazed,
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,
Then coursed the field around,and coursedit round again;
But, recollecting with a sudden thought,
That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,
They gathered close around the old pit's brink,
And thought again—but knew not what to think.

The man to solitude accustomed long,
Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees,
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all :
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,
How glad they catch the largeness of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of every loco-motive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name,
That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have all articulation in his ears ;

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